Dr. Endocrinologist referred me to a nurse educator who I believe holds dykeish (is this a word and did I spell this correctly?) qualities because she made jokes (that I didn’t think were that funny) yet blushed with tears flooding her eyes like she was on a date with me that lasted two hours according to her notes. She even googled her address in front of me. Then showed me the trail and mileage of when her and her daughter walked from home to school on their journey to lose additional weight. Odd, no?

Anyhow, she explained in more detail about diabetes, showed me videos and we went through the correct ways to use a One Touch Verio. Lastly, she informs me that I can get rid of the diabetes since it’s in the early stage. Then goes on to assume I eat white rice and beans because I’m Hispanic. I said, “No I’m Italian, and that’s where diabetes came from; you know the pasta.” She chuckled. I think we left off great after that date because she said if you ever want more education, just make another appointment to come see me.

*

Then there’s this psychiatrist who’s in the wrong field for the discussion subject of choice were forever about weight loss, even though at our last session she says,”Stand up. Oh, you have lost weight” as she orders me to step on a hippopotamus scale. She thought it her duty to give unsolicited nutritional advice in her horrible fucking Dolph Lundgren accent: No peas. No carrots.Zero carbs. Don’t eat carbs at all. This includes sweet potatoes! Maybe one day when you lose all the weight you can eat carbs again. Don’t weightlift anymore. Weightlifting makes you bulky. You’ll never lose weight that way. Only cardio! Jump. Walk. You know what I’m saying.

Every session felt like I watched a bad sitcom with my presence in the hot seat as this insensitive cunt tried to tell me who I was based on 3 fifteen minute conversations we engaged in. Then she tried to question my purpose in life, inquire if I ever soul search and spoke about people who sleep past midnight aren’t normal. She took the cake by getting angrier than I was because doctors diagnosed me diabetic and it didn’t matter if it was the beginning stages.

There were many things that amused me about her terrible character, but what got me is the fact that she works in a mental health industry yet treats (many) patients (according to many who work in the building with her) like shit and never bothers to read anyone’s chart because she believes she’s too good to do so. The thing with putting people in boxes is it isn’t accurate even though on the surface it seems the people you deal with are all the time, which I expressed to her. Then I never saw the cunt again.

Thank god I’m not some shrimpy insecure person. Thank god I don’t allow other people’s opinions to affect me or my life decisions. Thank god I’m not a newcomer and have been weightlifting for over 13 years and swear by it. So, I’m a professional yo-yo dieter, but I’ve also had my share of steady weight loss, conditioned fitness and extra curves that come with it. I’ve always been proud, but I believe some people want to come in your life and not necessarily lecture or cast dirty spells on you, but they want to destroy whatever good you hold for their own reasons. I swear that’s what it is.

*

An angelic bird, close partner and an acquaintance each whispered to see a podiatrist. Once again I had to verbally fight for a referral to see a podiatrist and prayed for the doctor to be a woman for I could use thoroughness and words of light from maternal grace. Well, I got a woman and one of the first things she mentioned was, “If you didn’t have diabetes, your insurance wouldn’t cover the orthopedic shoe cost.” (Life, working in mysterious ways again.) Goes on further to say: With the shoes, both your ankles should feel stable; you’ll be even and wobble less since you’ll have built in arches. You’ll experience less pain as you walk. It’ll be good for you.

What this all boils down to is I’m still under construction. This is probably why I haven’t written much on any of these blogs lately because I’m not in the best mindset and part of me doesn’t want to display the pessimism in every single one of my entries.

It’s disappointing, this long journey I’ve been riding on, how I continuously see this trend of people (doctors, therapists, psychiatrists, endocrinologists, etc) who are in these fields to assist and inspire people to live better healthier lives physically, emotionally, mentally, etc, but fail to do so. How is it and when does it begin for some people that a job just becomes a job and not what it was intended for? I guess I believe in practicality and being above and beyond with sensibilities like empathetic (empath) abilities along with a higher vision for existence depending on the occupation.

Still, I don’t want to take nothing away from the two people who did give me hope of course – the dyke nurse educator and podiatrist. The first gave me positive pep talk, smiles, and probably touched me a few times too many since she thought we were on a date, but she came off focused, direct with the right balance of sincerity, care and concern throughout. Or maybe she was just being extra nice to me because she enjoyed my presence? Who really knows? It doesn’t matter because she was one of the nice ones who did her job and assisted in the best way she knew how.

As for the podiatrist, she mentioned that the good thing about my foot/ankle dilemma is it’ll get better over time, not worse. The little that she did say carried weight. I needed to once again get the surge back, the kind where I can remain on the optimistic wave, so I can keep fighting and more importantly never give up.

I sit and prick my finger with the thinnest needle I’ve ever seen. It feels as thin as a loose-leaf page between my fingers. This needle reminds me of the first time I tried to grasp what was taking place on the table after I let the alcohol dry and stomach lbs of anxiety to push a simple white surrender button that has no problem piercing me at its own inorganic intention. That bee-stinger reminds me of my family’s hang ups every time I glance over the medical history list and check off every sick inheritance. It’s one more thing to put on the death record. The son of a bitch needle reminds me of where my life has been and where it’s going.

I think about who I’m becoming? I think about the coincidences that tie into another coincidence like a necklace and how I never believe much in coincidences or in necklaces that are meant to break with the purpose and strange intent to try and shake up my faith. I believe in life’s orchestration and in every gift given by higher sources. I think about my faith, motivation and temperament. How much fight I have in me? How to keep positive mantras by the altar of my heart and how to deal them out as needed, as well as how to go about feeding my spiritual backyard with water when it’s looking dry as a bone due to inner turmoil.

The small round dot of red reminds me of a ladybug. I believe the ladybug is searching for answers life can’t always give while I’m still breathing, punching and kicking alive. The ladybug is on a quest for numbers in low ranges and metabolic disorders to be of order. I’m checking my blood sugar, but I call her ladybug because it verbally and visually sounds prettier than the faults I hold as a human. The New Year brought me diabetes and I’m not sure how to feel about this progressive disease that had a lot to do with taking my mother’s life.

What does the bigger picture hold?

*

The surgeon says, “Are you aware diabetes further affects the ligaments.tendons in your foot and how your foot heals from surgery?” I don’t take advice from anyone who butchers human bodies for a living because even though what they do for a living can be helpful, there’s something inhumane about cutting into human bodies. Let alone, the discord for why surgeons lack brainpower, logic sense, human emotion and emotional intelligence. I can’t tell you the countless times I’ve been in his cold office and every single time I’ve felt like I was touched and centered by a black-hole; the entire light of my thirty-something being vanish in a space where I was beginning to be invisible to myself.

Then there’s my primary doctor who’s younger than I and mentally more fucked than I am says it’sin the controlled phase, don’t worry so much she blurts carelessly. Is she telling the 29 million Americans with diabetes not to worry too? Yet in the same session casually mentions how her supervisor said you would be a good candidate for bypass surgery as if I resemble a hippopotamus of sort. Anyone who hacks into human bodies for a living with a scalpel is god-awful fucking people. No thank you I know how to lose weight on my own even though these gargoyles of depression won’t get off my shoulders and every painful step and every stretch of my Achilles heel is a partial reminder where the mess of my life went awry.

So I asked for a referral to see the endocrinologist, which took me a year plus to get because I didn’t become a candidate until the diabetes clock decided to tick its way in because a 40lb weight gain in a 2 year span doesn’t constitute as a person having a real problem other than depression or hatred in America. So, do I consider the diabetes to be a blessing in disguise? Well, I certainly believe it came on time!

Now Dr. Endocrinologist doesn’t dish any hope at all, but he talked openly about his country, how poor he was as a kid and how he’d go hungry and learned the power of discipline through starvation unlike the Americans who have every convenience and option rolled out for them like a red carpet. He went on to say I know I’ll get diabetes eventually because it’s hereditary, but I do my best to prevent it by not eating all the wonderful fatty and carby things I would love to eat now. Then he wrapped up with a spiel of willpower and the difficulty most people have when it comes to willpower. And I kept looking at him, like do you know who the fuck I am? Then I realized no this is your first meeting and he talks like his because he doesn’t know me from a hole in the wall, so I don’t hold his appalling lecture personally.

He goes on to say 50% of your pancreas is shot and will never work the way it once did. Then right away I felt like a dying tulip on the side of neglected roadkill sitting on the thought of my pancreas dying a whole ten years prior according to him. The only thing I did agree with is the way his eyes lit up with sinful fire as he said, “What is wrong with your primary doctor? It’s crazy for her to mention bypass surgery for 3 reasons: 1. That’s not a solution. 2. Most people lose 50% of their weight the first year, but gain it ALL back because most people aren’t disciplined. 3. You don’t even know the basics of endocrinology.

The exasperating feeling of my body becoming lighter. The likelihood of my footsteps landing softer on pavement. The ailing reflection of an aura becoming comforted by much refinement in femininity.

I don’t question the bully who mocks my pacing of an indecisive vista of a prize to be earned. I plunge uncertain in the continuous reel of a rampant stomach bloated like a tub full of fat-bellied quadruplets with my menstrual cycle stringing my hormones in high streaks similar to the musical score of The Shining.

I qualm in a horrid practice of running around every inch of the apartment as if my ass caught fire and all the imaginative ants dropped onto the floor burnt over self-indulgent panic attacks and suddenly I’m at square one bemused due to the fear and speculation of losing weight.

FUCK!

Why am I dieting better?

All day and night I’ve dressed in layers of overbearing shapeless clothing in attempts to hide any inch that might have been vanished from sight. I’m utterly exhausted in this heat and humidity of both my bloody rotation and the gloom of New York City weather copying the cat of Seattle.

I dislike the idea, the thought and the response of being remotely skinny.

Shrinking down into the thought of centimeters torments my fragile ego. I feel like at any moment I’ll drown and disappear resembling the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz except water wouldn’t be the offender in this self-made barrier.

Is physical existence vastly different from my mass taking up space on Earth? (I’m unfamiliar about Science.)

Stupidly and viciously I jumble the idea of ‘size and weight’ as if they equal to muscle defeat when they don’t. But in this fictitious brain of mine I cannot get over this cemented design as of yet. Sooner or later I must breakthrough one of my mental hurdles.

Like my Partner in Crime has stated, ‘You shouldn’t be resistant to the idea of losing weight as long as it’s the right kind.’ But many concepts are easier declared than done.

Surely, when it comes to life and every single aspect it has to offer you in general. However in this case, I’ve learned to accept this strong vs weak days truth just like I’ve accepted the system in the United States of America is corrupted beyond means. But, yes, I’m talking about the many episodes of my Training Life.

What’s interesting enough is there are still days and nights where I want to go against myself and the acceptance of naked reality when there’s someone egging me on quite in the way groups will instigate an all out brawl in High School. (But maybe that was my High School and not to be confused with yours?)

There are moments of betrayal even when I know how hard I should or shouldn’t push myself. Even when I’ve kept to close examination and intuition of my own body. I know when I’m feeling weak as a person who’s lost their will before they even began a weight-loss or school program and I also know when I’m feeling army strong and can take on all the planets in the solar system.

Last night I wasn’t completely weak.

I noticed on numerous occasions, on the days I’ve let out shit loads of emotions externally (mostly anger) that by the time evening falls and when it’s my time to shine I can’t gain that lost energy back. So it’s tremendously vital for me not to waste precious exertion on anyone or anything. But there are good days when every street corner presents a red light to drivers so you can cross. And than there are bad days where the beauty of the sky becomes a state of hell. I can’t promise myself to be a saint when it comes to maintaining composure at all times. But I can try.

So I started with Box Squats (which I’ve never performed in my life). Did 5 sets of those. I moved right into Military Presses than came Deadlifts. Typically I warm up with 135lbs (doesn’t everyone?) and increased. When I did my reps for 175lbs (grip: double-handed) I felt that it was tough as oppose to last week when it felt light as a feather. Up to 195lbs, (making a snow-white of a mess with chalk because I like being dirty) still came off like a struggle.

My personal record is 210lbs for 4 reps. However with the way I felt last night I knew I wasn’t going to hit that mark or even break a fucking record. I told my partner in crime, “I don’t have it in me. I don’t even want to do those 5 goddamn reps for 205lbs.” He went on, “You got it. Let’s go.”

I did 2 reps.
It seemed fairly easy.
I counted 10 inhales.
Got another rep in.
Both my entire hands hurt.
I grimaced in pain.
Is this chalk not working? 😉
I shook it off.
Once. Maybe twice.
No more buying time.

Partner in crime says,“You’re almost there. You got it.”

But deep down inside I’m fucking scrambling.
My normal chants in my mind aren’t working.
I searched around the gym for strength.
I’m sweating under my own pressure.
15 inhales/exhales later.
I get the 4th rep up.
My grunt is even louder.
It comes from the womb I believe?

And once the dead weight comes to it’s deadness.
I crouched down and shuddered.. at knowing the 5th rep is a no go.
I still refused to admit defeat of any kind.
Partner In Crime is saying,“You got it. You got it.”

20 inhales later.
I make the first attempt to my 5th rep.
Not even halfway up I crashed the weight back down.
I felt pitiful while trying to keep composure.
But I make no mention out loud.

Partner in crime with his odd words of encouragement:“You’re not giving up that easy.”
As I walked away from the barbell.
Smacking my hands together in anger.
Powder flourishes in the air.
I shake my brain this time.
I snapped, “I’m not!”

I attempted another rep after 15 inhalations.
With my body trembling,
I pulled more than halfway this time…

And I want to make it for me. I want to make it for him. I want to make it for every Fitness Family Member I know. I want to make it for every woman. I want to make it for my aggression. I want to make it for everything I stand for.But I didn’t have it.
And even though I had someone egging me on.
On one of my weak days.
And though I kept pushing.
Betraying my body.

I was reminded by nearly injuring myself.
To stop.
Even if my partner didn’t know any better or know my body.
Because my form was crumbling.
Because my struggle quivered in my sneakers.
Because it occurred during my anger..
Of not getting the last rep where I needed it to be..
When I know in every shred of my being
I’m fucking stronger than this.

Years ago I’d get depressed and mope.
But now I understand how you have to handle your business.
By handle I mean: GIVE IT YOUR ALL!
Because sometimes it’s going to be one of those weak days.
Even when you’re mentally: One-hundred percent.
So accept it!

-Pennington

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Sometimes I play the tough woman in real life, even on television (wait – what?), on my blogs to family and associates alike who I truly believe share the same shady characteristics because they’re human and overly emotional. However I especially dish out tough love (even when it’s ever so exhausting to keep up an act or two) when I have to shut shit (or men) down. But I’m truly a sweet loving one-of-a-kind sometimes timid gal who blushes when you and I least expect.

So I decided to share a list of things that genuinely scare me (in one way or another) to display the fact that even though I can be a robot at times, underneath the heavy-duty guards I’m human too – unfortunately. To keep the list short I figured I skip the explanations and examples. These aren’t in any particular order. By the way, if I peak(ed) your curiosity feel free to point it out or ask me in the box below. In general, I don’t bite. But I LIFT SHIT! 😉

There are also exceptions to the rule like those hardgainers who in all life couldn’t gain weight or an ounce of muscle to spare their fucking life. And so they break their backs (just like the Fitness Enthusiasts/Bodybuilders) with headaches, sacrifice, blood, sweat and tears training hard! They eat trucks and cars for breakfast and dinner and wrestle gorillas so that when they take brand new photos: They’re fucking legit! 😉

Well I had a normal childhood in terms of Bodyweight. (I don’t possess a scanner, otherwise I would post a photo of what I call then the luxury body.) I grew up with the luxury of being what I call “Skinny” or to what others deem the perfect 120lb body. In some cultures like the Spanish Community I tell you we love full-figured curves. So putting on jeans at this Skinny weight always left me hella self-conscious. I was peer pressured lots to dress like some sort of female, especially when I went out clubbing with the girls and I dreaded my Skinny Legs. I thought everyone was looking at them. But they were really just looking at my tits. LoL!

However having this 120 body at the time wasn’t something I strove to have. Tis was the life of being a picky eater with a virginized never hit cultured tongue. Tis was the life of having a what you call youngin-metabolism. Tis was the life of being naive and having sex 5-8 times a day because it was new to me. I didn’t cherish my pussy or esteem well.. plus I wanted to spite the shit out of my mother. Fabulous times!

I didn’t start gaining weight til I was 21 years old. By 22 years of age I checked myself out in a mirror one day and couldn’t fucking believe what I saw! *faints* I had no mirrors in the apartment at the time (living with my boyfriend) period! That was my first mistake. I knew something was strange when I couldn’t wear my jewelry around my sausage fingers anymore. I also knew something was type odd when I would bend down to pick something off the floor and my own skin (fat) would pinch me.

Subconsciously I knew I was fat and I was in denial said all the long skirts I so happen to wear out on evenings. And I couldn’t walk 2 blocks without my ankles bothering the hell out of me, not to mention the shin splits JUST FORM FUCKING WALKING! Poor body! And don’t get me started on the constant water retention during the Summer time. Not fucking fun! Oh and the best part was that my thunder thighs and big ass had all the Black men lining up as if I were the spectacle of the NBA. Fabulous times! ><

Easy! I was in a horrible, depressive and dreadful relationship for roughly 3 years of my newly fresh out of the nineteen life and over into twenty. I knew we were going to have problems with diet because this guy ate mounds of food all day long. We would dine 4-6 times a day all around the city. I’m talking about eat anything from Malaysian to Italian. We would get high, get the munchies and rack up on foods in the middle of the night as if we’re having a contest on who can eat the most! During the time I didn’t know any better as to why women couldn’t eat the same amount of food a hefty bear man could eat and expect to remain the same weight. (Another reason to hate the biology makeup of men!)

What was the first thing that sparked me to change my weight?

I went for a doctor visit, took my physical exam, waited for the results and found out I was PRE-DIABETIC! Instantly, like in a blink of an eye I saw my entire obese aunts, uncles, cousins, mother and brother (til I helped him shed lbs and gain muscle) and in two words said: FUCK THIS! After that I went to a free nutritionist who gave me poor advice (free = poor advice), but I used it to my advantage, did some research myself and dropped 34lbs in 6 months.

How did I do that? It was called under-eating (1600) and massive amounts of cardio work for 5-6 times a week, not including 2-3 more sessions of working out at home. Plus I deprived myself to no end. Never touching one chip or a cookie. So, what happened? I put the weight right back on. See because during the time I still didn’t understand the word: Lifestyle! I resorted right back to my old ways of eating.

More Great News!

Another doctor visit: My tests showed my thyroid’s meant to be underactive. Now, could you imagine how discouraged I felt after this? First I piled the weight back on and NOW THIS SHIT! She gave me a purple pill and told me “this is the solution to your problem.” BULLSHIT! The pill helped ZERO! The rest I did on my own! By this time 2005-2006 I was working for a gym, personal training. I decided to get into this field after I helped my brother shed massive weight/fat from an astounding 300lbs to a healthy confident 230lbs of rock solid muscle. Of course now he’s embedded to me forever! 😉

I wanted to be on my A-game and show people that, “If I can do it, you can do it too.” So I lost weight again. Quite quickly! (I love putting in the physical work!) At this point of my Life I was starting to feel like the yo-yoing of Janet Jackson. Now I can keep going on the subject, but for now Bodybuilding ~Bodysculpting is my thing! Also let it be known that I train hard, diet (hard on~off~on~off) and I don’t take that goddamn pill!

And it’s an endless struggle still for reasons known and unknown. But it’s a fabulous thing that I love me challenges to begin with. It keeps me on my toes, as it should you.